


Finding Solid Ground

by Aini_NuFire



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Angst, Brotherhood, Discrimination, Early Inseparables, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Aramis, Hurt/Comfort, Post Savoy, Pre-Series, Recovery, Sick Athos, beginnings of friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-06-30 04:27:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19845583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: How do three men adrift in the world find an anchor and forge a bond that becomes inseparable?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a scene and turned into nine chapters of how our favorite trio became the Inseparables.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine. Thanks to 29Pieces for beta reading!

Athos sat at the table in the garrison courtyard, nursing a cup of very watered down wine to help take the edge off the pounding in his skull from his previous night's drinking. He would have to find a way to curtail his consumption now that he was a musketeer. Dulled senses and habitual sickness would not make him worthy of his newly bestowed commission. And while he had cared little for what remained of his wretched life these past few weeks, death was too easy an exit and he did not deserve absolution. So he would devote his life to duty and an honorable charge. Those things were, after all, the reason he'd lost everything in the first place.

Movement drew his muddled attention from his cup to the training yard where a large, burly musketeer was setting up targets. Athos grimaced preemptively; musket fire was not going to help his headache.

The other musketeer picked up a musket and started priming it. Athos was considering relocating when he spotted Captain Treville coming out of one of the barracks' rooms on the ground level, which seemed strange, since the captain's office and quarters were on the second floor.

The captain walked over to the musketeer with the musket. "Not today, Porthos."

The musketeer stalled in his priming of the weapon, brow furrowing in confusion. His gaze shifted over the captain's shoulder to the room he'd just come out of, which was dark. His mouth turned down further. "But he was gettin' better."

Treville's expression was oddly sympathetic yet grim. "Not today," he repeated.

The captain turned his head, eye catching Athos's. "You can practice your sword fighting instead. Athos is a skilled swordsman."

Porthos looked his way, lips thinning.

Athos rose from the table at the implied order and walked over, mustering what composure he had to remain steady.

"I don't believe you've been formally introduced yet," Treville said. "Athos, this is Porthos. He's been with the regiment for a few months. Porthos, this is Athos, our newest member."

The two men exchanged cordial nods.

"I'll leave you to it," Treville said and made his way upstairs to his office.

Athos undid his weapons belt so he could doff his coat, walking back to place them both on the table. He then unsheathed his sword from its scabbard. Porthos was already just wearing a shirt and vest for comfortable sparring attire. The man looked reluctant, though, as he traded his musket for a blade.

Athos walked into the center of the yard and took a moment to find his center of balance. Even inebriated, he could wield a sword well enough. He saluted Porthos with his rapier before shifting into a ready stance. The other man attempted to mirror his form, but it was clear from his posture that he lacked formal training.

Athos attacked first. Porthos's parry was immediate and forceful, too much so; while his arm was completing the momentum of his swing, he left his side exposed. Athos took a swipe at it, careful to lightly thwack his vest rather than slice through it. Porthos lurched away, brows knitting together. Athos let him make the aggressive move next.

The force of his swing sent vibrations down Athos's arm when he blocked it, but again he lacked poise and Athos was able to twist around behind him and press the tip of his blade into the man's exposed back.

Porthos hopped away, expression tightening further. But instead of renewing his fervor, he attacked with clumsy attention, his gaze almost as shifty as his aim. The strident clang of steel rang out in several staccato peals that rattled Athos's head before he swiftly disarmed the man.

"You are distracted," he commented blandly.

Porthos shrugged away.

"Distraction during training will translate to distraction during a real battle," Athos pointed out, echoes from his own tutelage coming forth.

Porthos shot him a miffed glare. "Can't imagine the sound of sword fightin' is any better than musket fire," he grumbled.

Athos lowered his blade. "You believe Treville's instruction to forego target practice was in deference to the noise?"

The larger man's gaze flicked to the dark room before he turned back around. "Let's jus' go again," he huffed.

Athos obliged, but once more he was able to quickly beat Porthos three times in a row. The disparity in their skill level was something to take into account, but it was also clear that the other man's heart simply was not in it.

"Perhaps you were hoping for another sparring partner this morning," Athos commented, his own gaze now drawn to the dark room that kept distracting Porthos. "Your friend is ill?" he hazarded based on what he'd overheard from the captain.

Porthos's irritated expression quickly morphed into one of sadness. "Aramis. He was wounded at Savoy and sometimes his head pains 'im badly." His tone dropped to a low murmur laced with disappointment. "But he was gettin' better."

Savoy. Athos had heard of what happened there. It was impossible not to; everyone in the garrison whispered about it, the horror of the slaughter, the tragic loss of twenty soldiers. The massacre of Savoy was the reason a drunk like him had been granted a commission: the ranks were too thin and Captain Treville was in desperate need to rebuild them.

The murmurs also spoke of the sole survivor. Well, technically there were two who had not perished, but one was a deserter who was only spoken of in whispered contempt. The other was one whose name ghosted the garrison frequently. Aramis.

Athos did not yet have a face to go with the name. The man was not on the duty roster and Athos never lingered in the garrison after his duties were over, electing to find a dark corner in the nearest tavern instead.

"How are his skills with a blade?" Athos asked.

Porthos blinked in confusion. "He's pretty good. Bet he could keep up wit' you once he's feelin' better."

"I look forward to testing that," Athos replied. "Perhaps in the meantime we can work on your sword skills so you can keep up with him. Once he's feeling better."

Porthos eyed him warily, not quite sizing him up but perhaps uncertain of Athos's intentions?

Athos merely waited until Porthos finally gave a slow nod and resumed a sparring stance. This time his focus was better, and Athos called out instructions on his form and execution as they went at each other. The man graciously took the corrections and appeared to be seriously trying to incorporate them. He may have been unrefined but he clearly wanted to learn and displayed an aptitude for it.

Athos found himself struggling with his own wine-addled shortcomings in order to keep up with his stamina.

o.0.o

Over the next two days, Porthos joined Athos at the table in the morning before muster. His friend Aramis had yet to emerge, so Athos figured the man was looking for other company. But Porthos didn't bother Athos with overtures of friendship, which was just as well, especially since mornings weren't good for Athos to begin with. More than that though, he was not interested in befriending anyone.

When he'd first joined the regiment, some of the other men had made attempts to strike up casual conversation, but he'd silently rebuffed their efforts until they gave up trying to engage him in anything that didn't have to do with Musketeer business.

But seeing as how Porthos kept his own silence, Athos tolerated him.

Then, on the third morning, Athos arrived late, having had a particularly hard time getting out of bed after he'd spent several minutes retching into his water pitcher. When he walked into the garrison courtyard, Porthos was already seated at the table at the base of the stairs having breakfast. A group of musketeers came out of the kitchen with their own bowls of porridge, but instead of taking the vacant seats, they all moved to congregate on the opposite end of the courtyard, choosing rather to sit on crates and hay barrels instead of at the table. The behavior seemed casual, natural, yet there was almost a pointedness to the way that no one's gazes even remotely drifted Porthos's direction.

Athos had assumed this whole time that Porthos was of a similar disposition as him, choosing solitude out of personal preference. It seemed he was incorrect. Only a blind man wouldn't notice Porthos's darker complexion and slightly brutish manner. But while Athos didn't care for friendship, neither did he care for discrimination.

He walked across the yard and took a seat at the end of the table. "Morning."

Porthos looked up in surprise, confirming Athos's suspicions. After a moment, he nodded in return. "Mornin'."

They sat in silence after that until it was time for muster. Treville announced who was to report to the palace for guard duty, which included Athos and Porthos. A total of four were sent to the palace grounds to stand watch while the King entertained himself with some fencing practice.

The assignment was dull and standing in the sun did not help Athos's headache and queasiness. He didn't even bother taking note of the King's form or his tutor's expertise. Nor was he _really_ paying attention to their surroundings. He was relieved when the King finally ended his activities and retired inside, thus relieving the musketeers of their posts.

The four returned to the garrison, silent the entire way, and the other two quickly broke away from Athos and Porthos once they reached the yard as though eager to escape undesirable company. Athos didn't care for himself, but he thought their behavior toward Porthos unbecoming of a musketeer.

There was a man sitting at their usual table and Porthos immediately brightened upon seeing him.

"Aramis."

The man gave a wan smile in return, and Athos couldn't help but notice how frail he looked: thin and waxen and leaning more than half his weight against the edge of the table in order to sit up. There was a furrow along the side of his head where the skin was puckered pink, his short, unruly curls having yet to grow over the scar.

"Good to see you up an' about," Porthos said with a beaming smile.

"Good to be up and about," the man replied.

"This is Athos." Porthos gestured to him. "Athos, this is Aramis."

Athos nodded politely. He was considering where else he might find shade and quiet to retreat to, but Porthos went on, saying,

"Athos has been helpin' me train with a sword. He's pretty good."

"It was just once," Athos corrected.

Porthos looked chastised and quickly gave a stiff nod. "Of course." He turned back to Aramis. "The captain ordered him to when you weren't able to coach me on shootin'."

Aramis's expression fell at that. "I'm sorry."

"Nothin' to worry about," Porthos assured him. "We can always try later."

"We also haven't had an opportunity to practice again," Athos interjected, disliking the assumption it seemed Porthos had made in regards to his earlier statement. "Your form needs work but you have power. With some refinement, you'll make an excellent swordsman."

Porthos looked utterly astounded by the remark. Athos, too, was slightly taken aback by it, as he wasn't usually free with compliments. Although it wasn't like he had spoken an untruth.

Aramis smiled. "That's good. I'm glad Porthos has found someone to work with."

Athos again wondered how much the large man was shunned in the regiment, if his only friend was an invalid who looked like a soft breeze could knock him over.

Porthos cleared his throat and turned back to Aramis. "Have you eaten?"

The man paled further at the question, which Athos hadn't thought possible.

"No…" he murmured.

"I'll get us all some food," Porthos immediately volunteered, flashing a grin between both Aramis and Athos before heading for the kitchen.

This would be the point in which Athos would take his leave, but he hesitated at the rejection Porthos would perceive by doing so. Thus, he reluctantly sat on the bench and reached for the pitcher of water that was on the table. He poured himself a cup, then did the same for Aramis, who blinked at him in surprise. It seemed Athos was knocking everyone off balance today.

Aramis nodded his thanks and sipped slowly at the water.

Neither of them spoke, and the silence was only broken with Porthos's return. The man had two plates balanced in one large hand and a third in the other. He set them on the table and pushed two toward Aramis and Athos. There was some roasted chicken and bread rolls, along with a single slice of cheese each.

Athos hadn't eaten yet that day, what with his stomach rebelling so forcefully that morning. It still warbled in displeasure as he took a bite of chicken, but the bread settled more easily.

Porthos heartily pushed whole forkfuls into his mouth, while Aramis picked sparingly at his portion.

"Mmm," Porthos mumbled. "Serge's cookin' tastes real good today. Some of his best."

Athos thought the food tasted the same as it did every day, but a look at Porthos's eager face encouraging Aramis to eat more showed what the larger musketeer was trying to do.

Aramis's mouth tugged upward in a feeble smile and he took another bite. It looked to be a struggle though, despite Porthos's repeated praises of the cook's skill. It was too bad Serge wasn't out here to hear them.

Aramis managed to eat a quarter of his plate before he lifted his head with a smile and asked, "Do you two have time to spar? I'd like to watch."

Porthos straightened and raised his brows in question at Athos. He looked so enthusiastic about it that Athos shrugged his acquiescence and stood to remove his coat. He noticed Aramis surreptitiously use the change of subject to cease eating his lunch. Porthos seemed oblivious, walking out to the middle of the yard and bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation.

It was just a little sparring for training purposes, Athos resolved, nothing more. Helping someone improve their skill was not the same as friendship.


	2. Chapter 2

That evening after Athos left, Porthos filled up another plate of food and set it in front of Aramis. He hadn't missed how the rest of the marksman's lunch had gone untouched after Aramis deflected attention toward a sparring match. Porthos had let it go because he knew it wasn't easy for him after one of those episodes, but the only way he was going to regain his strength was to eat.

Porthos skewered an apple slice with a small knife and held it up. "Fruit that ain't bruised. I never ate this good in the Court." He twirled the chunk suggestively.

Aramis smiled thinly. "Indulge, my friend. You deserve it."

Porthos popped the slice in his mouth and then stabbed another chunk, holding the knife out toward his friend. "What region do you think this crop is from? Might be the best we've had."

Aramis gave him a fond eye roll and accepted the knife, though he took a much smaller bite of the fruit than Porthos had. "Gascony, I'd wager."

Porthos nodded. "Good stuff comes out of there."

They ate a bit more, Porthos having to cajole Aramis into taking each and every bite. Finally Aramis set his fork down.

"I'm sorry, Porthos, I can't."

"It's okay," he quickly said. "You did good."

Aramis looked away, a muscle in his jaw ticking. Porthos knew he hated being coddled, and that wasn't Porthos's intentions. He was just worried and wanted to help his friend get better.

Aramis rose from the bench seat on shaky legs, planting both his palms on the table to hold his weight. Porthos stood and came around to lend a supportive arm. Just being up and around for a few hours had obviously exhausted Aramis's reserves after this most recent setback, and Porthos's heart ached for his friend. It wasn't fair that Aramis should have to keep suffering like this, not when he'd already come so far.

With a steadying hand under Aramis's elbow, Porthos helped him back to his room. Light spilled in from the opened door to illuminate the dark interior, the curtains still drawn firmly across the window. The air was stuffy from the room being closed tight these past few days and Porthos made a mental note to air it out tomorrow.

His gaze roved over the various vials and pouches cluttering the table and nightstand, remedies left by the doctor over the past few weeks as he tried to help Aramis with these headaches that kept cropping up and refused to fully settle.

"Anythin' you need?" Porthos asked.

"No," Aramis murmured, lying down on the bed and closing his eyes.

Porthos wavered with indecision. He knew Aramis needed rest, but he was loathe to just leave him languishing like this. Even though there wasn't really anything he could do to help.

"You should go," Aramis spoke up. His lips twitched slightly with some effort. "I know there's a card game you'd like to get to."

There was, but he could forego it. "I could stay," he offered. "Keep you company."

"I'm just going to sleep," Aramis replied, words already slurring with exhaustion. "You should go enjoy yourself, Porthos." His voice dropped low into almost a whisper. "I'm sorry."

"You got nothin' to be sorry about," Porthos replied earnestly. "You'll be better soon and we'll both go to the tavern again."

Aramis didn't say anything to that. Porthos thought maybe he'd drifted off to sleep, but then he suggested quietly,

"You could ask Athos to go."

Porthos huffed. "I don' think Athos is the type to like company."

He was frankly surprised the man had deigned to spend any time with him outside of being ordered to. But he'd sat with them at lunch and agreed to train with Porthos in sword fighting again. He was cordial with Porthos rather than dismissive. Porthos wasn't going to push it though.

Aramis didn't say anything more.

At a loss, Porthos finally bid him good night. "I'll see ya tomorrow," he said softly and quietly bowed out of the room, closing the door behind him. Then, with nothing else to do, he headed for the tavern and that card game he'd been thinking of.

The tavern was bustling when he arrived, the game already underway with three of the regulars and another newcomer. Porthos pulled a chair out from the next table over and joined them.

"Gentlemen," he greeted, rubbing his hands in anticipation. He received nods from two of the men and glowers from the other two. At least here any animosity garnered came from beating these blokes out of their coin and not anything else.

Except Porthos ended up losing the first couple of rounds and more than half his month's wages, which he could ill afford. He was off his game and he knew it, so he forced himself to focus and directed his energies toward a little sleight of hand. He loved that just as much as he did the game of chance. Pulling one over on the other players took the same amount of skill as learning to read facial cues in order to know when to bet or fold. And it got him some of his money back.

After a few more rounds, he won more than he'd arrived with, which brightened his spirits some. Still, it just wasn't the same without Aramis sitting at a nearby table flirting with one of the bar wenches.

Porthos looked up out of habit, even knowing his friend wasn't there. He ended up spotting Athos sitting in the back corner alone. Porthos briefly thought about going over but quickly decided against it. The man did not invite company and Porthos wasn't going to be presumptive based on a few days of polite tolerance.

But before he turned his attention back to the card game, he noticed a young boy slinking around the patrons of the tavern. Porthos narrowed his eyes as the lad brushed past Athos with adroit precision, not even garnering notice from the drunk man.

Porthos scooped up his winnings and rose from his seat, ignoring the jabs from the other men about trying to earn back their coin. He moved across the room, snatching the boy's arm as he passed. The kid yelped and tried to wrench away, but Porthos's grip was unyielding as he dragged the boy back to Athos's table.

"Give the coins back," he ordered in a low voice.

The boy scowled at him and continued to struggle.

Athos blinked at their intrusion and then slowly patted his pockets, brow furrowing at the apparent lack of jingle.

Porthos bent low and fixed a stern glare at the street urchin. "Now."

Though the boy was attempting to appear undaunted, there was nevertheless a flicker of fear in his eyes, and he slowly held out a fist over the table and dropped a handful of coins on it.

"You should use your smarts for more honest work," Porthos told him and pressed a coin from his winnings into the boy's palm. "Now get back to the Court. The streets are dangerous at night, even for thieves."

The boy looked stunned, but as soon as Porthos loosened his grip, he was off like a shot, darting through the crowd and out the door.

Athos lolled his gaze up at Porthos. "He should have been arrested."

Porthos's expressed hardened. "He's jus' tryin' to survive. It's not his fault he don't know any better."

"How can he learn if you reward him for his thievery?"

Porthos's jaw tightened and he thought about leaving, but then he took note of how many empty bottles of wine were on the table and realized how drunk Athos really was. Porthos would almost be impressed by his stamina if it wasn't a stupid thing to do.

He sighed with resignation. "Get up. I'll make sure you get home alright."

"'M fine," Athos muttered. "I make it home every night."

"Yeah, an' sooner or later someone's gonna notice that pattern an' take advantage. But not tonight. So come on, get up."

He took hold of Athos's arm and hauled him out of his seat. The man tried to shrug him off but was in no shape to offer much protest. Porthos scooped up the coins and stuffed them into Athos's pocket, then more or less manhandled him from the tavern.

"Where do you live?" he asked once they were outside. He knew Athos didn't bunk at the garrison like most of the other men in the regiment.

Athos twisted out of his hold and stumbled. "I can make it on my own."

Porthos watched him lurch to the side. "Yeah, sure. Look, it's either yer own bed or the garrison. Your choice. But I ain't leavin' you out here to get robbed an' dumped in the Seine. What kind of musketeer would that make me?"

Athos regarded him with a bleary gaze for a long moment. "Fine," he finally bit out. "My apartments are that way." He gestured vaguely.

"Alright then." Porthos took his arm again to offer a steadying support as they made their way through the dark streets, Athos telling him when to turn right or left.

They eventually reached a small house with an outer staircase leading up to one of the second story rooms. Of course Athos would want lodgings with that kind of privacy. Though Porthos imagined it worked out for the landlord as well, not having to listen to their tenant stumble drunkenly through their house late at night.

Navigating the steps was precarious and Porthos was amazed Athos hadn't fallen down them and broken his neck before now. At the door, the man took a few moments to fish out his key for the lock before finally managing to open it. Porthos kept a firm hold on his elbow as he guided him toward the bed where Athos dropped heavily onto the mattress.

Porthos couldn't help but curiously look around. The furnishings were quite sparse: a bed, dresser, nightstand—which had a bottle of wine sitting atop it. There were a couple empty ones lying on their sides on the floor. Other than that, there wasn't much in the way of personal touches in the room.

"That boy wasn't from the Court," Athos mumbled as his fingers fumbled clumsily at the clasps of his coat.

"The Court of Miracles," Porthos elaborated, watching him struggle but figuring any help would be sharply rebuffed.

Athos's brow pinched. "A den of thieves, of course."

Porthos bristled at the contemptuous tone even though the descriptor was true. "I grew up there," he said abruptly, though he didn't know why. Athos had been civil to him and now that would change. Porthos braced for the inevitable disdain.

But Athos merely lifted his head to look at him blearily, perhaps too drunk to comprehend. Then he went back to undoing his coat and belt, rising unsteadily to doff them.

"You got out," he remarked, letting the items drop carelessly on the floor.

"An' made somethin' of myself," Porthos added proudly. "Maybe one day that boy will too. But tomorrow, at least he gets to eat."

He expected Athos to argue more about proper justice and the law, but the man looked thoughtful as his balance teetered.

"You don't conceal your past," he said.

"Why should I? I'm not ashamed of the circumstances I was forced to grow up in. You think people choose to be poor? I know what it's like to have to decide between stealin' an' goin' hungry. But I didn't let that define who I am. Besides, people don' need to know my past to have a reason to dislike me."

Porthos clamped his mouth shut. He didn't know where that vehement defense had come from; he wasn't used to offering an explanation to anyone, mostly because no one ever cared to look past the surface of his skin color, let alone his upbringing. Only Captain Treville and Aramis had accepted him unreservedly at the mention of his past, and he'd never had to make an account of himself to them.

"One's heritage is hardly grounds to make judgements on a man's character," Athos replied, sinking back onto the bed.

Porthos shrugged one shoulder. "So the fact that I was once a thief like that boy is what you take issue with?"

He didn't know why he was pushing. It had been a surprising relief when Athos hadn't treated him with the same discrimination as most of the rest of the garrison, and now Porthos was actively trying to ruin it? Or maybe he just preferred to know where he stood and Athos's vacillating behavior was only confusing him.

Athos stared at him for a long moment. "Treville chose you to become a musketeer," he finally said. "That should be good enough for anyone."

Maybe, in an ideal world.

"Is it good enough for you?" Porthos pressed.

They held each other's gaze. Then Athos slowly nodded.

"It is."

Porthos relaxed a fraction and nodded in return.

Athos lay back on his bed and closed his eyes. "I'll be more diligent regarding pickpockets in the future," he mumbled.

Porthos scoffed. "Yeah."

Or maybe he'd just make a point of ensuring the man made it home every night.


	3. Chapter 3

Athos squinted against the harsh morning light as he shuffled his way into the garrison and slumped onto the bench seat beneath the balcony. It was getting harder and harder to rouse himself at the start of each new day after getting as drunk as possible the nights before. He'd stopped remembering how he'd even gotten back to his apartments in one piece, though he knew Porthos had something to do with it. The man never said anything about it though.

_"What kind of musketeer would that make me?"_

Athos remembered bits and pieces from that first night's conversation. Porthos was trying to live up to the honor of being a musketeer. Athos could understand that. And respect it.

And since Porthos didn't try to instigate any type of friendship over it, Athos found he could tolerate the…help.

His thoughts drifted back to what he'd learned of the man's background, how Porthos had grown up among thieves and criminals, had stolen in order to eat when he was a child. And now he was a musketeer, trying to live a new life of honor and duty. Porthos had asked Athos if that was enough for him, and he'd said yes. Because he'd found no justification for otherwise.

But it was precisely that revelation that had led to an increase in his drinking. For he wondered, if Anne had told him the truth from the beginning about her past, would he have accepted her? Would he have accepted her desire to make a new life? Or would he have been unable to see beyond her past crimes? Would he have cast her out, and his brother still be alive? Or could they all have been happy?

But he had no answers to those questions and it didn't matter anyway because things could not be undone. And so he drank to erase his pain and guilt and the image of her face with the noose around her neck…

He startled when a cup of steaming liquid was abruptly slid under his face and he jerked his head up.

Aramis sat down next to him. "You look like you could use that."

Athos got a whiff of bitter herbs wafting up and he pushed the cup away. "I prefer wine."

"I'm sure you do, but that will help with the headache I know you have."

Athos shot the man a tetchy look.

Aramis simply quirked a knowing brow at him. "I happen to have a lot of experience with them. That contains steeped feverfew, willow, and ginger to help settle the stomach, since severe headaches usually take a toll on the gut as well. I've found that combination works best." He paused, then added ruefully, "Most of the time."

Athos vaguely remembered Porthos commenting on Aramis's ailment. Since his head was pounding and the thought of being sent on an assignment this morning made him groan internally, he picked up the cup and took a tentative sip. The brew was wretched and he almost spat it out, but he really did need a way to get through the day, and so made an effort to swallow more without gagging.

Boots clomped down the nearby stairs, echoing painfully in Athos's head. Captain Treville passed the table and nodded to Aramis, then gave Athos a piercing look that held a glint of what might have been disappointment. Athos's efforts to curb his drinking were obviously failing, but he just couldn't stand to be haunted by _her_ face. The thought instantly made him yearn for more alcohol to blunt the memories and the dagger in his heart, but he forced himself to down the rest of the disgusting herbal remedy instead.

"I'm going to the palace," Treville said. "I'll be back later."

Aramis nodded in acknowledgement while Athos didn't react at all.

Porthos came over as the captain left. "Up for some training?" he asked tentatively.

Athos most certainly was not, but before he could get his brain to connect with his mouth and decline, Aramis responded.

"Sure." He rose from his seat, having grown steadier with each passing day.

As they started the practice duel, Athos reached up to rub his head, the clanging of steel rattling through his skull. Even so, he was mildly curious and managed to look up and watch the two men in their dance. He was surprised to see how much Porthos was holding back. He hadn't thought the large man capable of restraint, but his swings were clearly less powerful than when he sparred with Athos.

Aramis was obviously out of shape, though there were remnants of elegant poise in his stance and movements, marred as they were by stiltedness and slowed reflexes. Athos knew those would lessen as the man regained his strength and thought it would be interesting to spar with him when he was in top form.

Porthos grinned widely as they parried and riposted, though Athos could see it wasn't out of gloating from having an advantage over his opponent, but just out of genuine delight.

"You're gettin' better faster this time," he said.

They exchanged one more thrust and block before Aramis dropped his sword and took a step back, chest heaving with labored breaths.

"Perhaps, but I still have a ways to go." He shuffled back to the table and collapsed onto the bench seat.

"Still, you'll be thrashin' me sooner than I'll be able to best you on equal footing," Porthos pressed.

Aramis smiled warmly. "You don't give yourself enough credit, my friend."

Athos found that some of the pounding in his head was receding. Apparently those herbs did work rather well. He stood up and drew his rapier. "I'll take a turn now."

Porthos's face cracked into a wide, excited grin without hesitation. "Alright."

Athos walked out into the center of the yard and stretched out his stiff neck muscles before settling into a ready stance. He'd have to ask Aramis for the instructions on making that tea later. Because it might just be enough to help him restore his precarious balance between the alcohol and his duty.

o.0.o

Aramis spent the afternoon cleaning weapons, as he and Porthos had been given the task of inspecting the armory's muskets and ensuring they were in pristine condition. Treville had sent Athos with them as well, though the laconic man focused his attention on sharpening the blades in their storehouse.

Just as his sparring, Aramis's adroitness and pace with a musket lacked something to be desired. He was also exhausted after that one round of practice dueling but he tried not to see it as discouraging. He was familiar with the process of recovering from injuries and knew it took time and patience. It was just frustrating to have suffered a setback over a month after the initial wounds from Savoy. The debilitating headaches erased all of his hard work and reduced him to this weakened state as though it had only been days since he'd been brought back from that wretched forest.

Porthos, however, was delighted by the little progress he'd made that day. "Feel up to a night at the tavern?" he asked as he put the last musket back in its place, his tone balanced between hope and understanding if the answer was no.

While Aramis could have collapsed into his bed, he gave his friend a smile. "Sounds good." It would do him well to get out of the garrison a bit, another step to reclaiming his life.

Porthos beamed in response, then glanced briefly at Athos, not explicitly extending the invitation but nor excluding him. Athos, for his part, said nothing.

Aramis stood up, hiding a wince as his overtaxed muscles protested, and went by his room to grab his coat. Donning his sash and weapons belt felt both heavy and like slipping back into his own skin; it'd been so long since he'd truly felt like himself. He picked up his hat and set it upon his head, angling it so the brim concealed the scar. Then he made his way back out to where Porthos and Athos were waiting by the archway.

Porthos flashed him another one of his ecstatic smiles before they headed out into the streets. Athos didn't say a word the entire way and Aramis wondered if he was off-putting the man. Porthos, however, seemed unfazed by it.

They arrived at the tavern and Athos immediately broke away, presumably to secure a table. For a moment, Aramis was caught off guard by the raucous noise and roisterous crowd. So much was going on he couldn't possibly keep eyes on everything…

"Aramis?" a feminine voice called out. A bar wench sashayed up to him, red lips puckered and dark lashes fluttering. "It's been ages since I've seen ya!" she exclaimed. "Talk about breakin' a girl's heart."

Aramis blinked, the room coming into focus. "Suzette. My apologies." He reached up to remove his hat but stopped himself at the last second. He deftly recovered and took her hand instead to raise to his lips for a kiss. "I'm afraid I was gravely wounded in battle and have been recovering."

Her eyes widened. "Oh, you poor dear!"

He flashed her a charming smile. "I should have come by sooner, for your visage carries more healing power than any of man's medicine."

She blushed and swatted at his chest. "Let me get you a drink, love." She took his hand and tugged him along.

Aramis cast a look back at Porthos, who was grinning like a mad idiot.

"Pace yerself," he called before turning and heading toward a card game in the back.

Aramis let Suzette lead him to a vacant table where she gently pushed him into the chair and then went to get him a drink. When she came back with a mug of ale, she plopped herself in his lap.

"You cut your hair," she purred, running fingers through the ends of his sheared locks.

He captured her hand and brought it around to kiss again. "Whereas you look as ravishing as ever."

She giggled and leaned in to steal a kiss from his lips. Aramis indulged her for a few moments before someone shouted at her to come get them a refill.

"Alright, alright!" she yelled back. Her expression softened for him and she slid out of his lap.

Aramis watched her go, then took a small sip of his ale. His gaze wandered over the tavern; he was starting to get overwhelmed again by all the people and activity and he began to feel exposed sitting in the middle of it all.

He spotted Athos in the far corner, alone, and picked up his drink as he headed over. Athos had a whole bottle of wine to himself and was surprisingly almost finished with it already. Aramis took the seat across from him, though Athos didn't acknowledge him.

"Why do you drink so much if it makes you feel so horrible in the morning?" he asked.

"I'm trying to forget something that hurts much worse," Athos replied and knocked back a long swig.

Aramis grew somber at the blunt admission. "I understand," he said quietly. He rotated his own mug in his hand, the amber liquid near the top rippling with false promises. "I tried drinking myself into oblivion once. It only made the nightmares worse and I couldn't wake from them."

He'd been trapped in a snow-covered forest bathed in blood with nothing to do but scream and scream…

A shudder shook his bones and Aramis tried to wrench himself out of going there. He found Athos watching him intently.

"There was a woman," the other man finally said, voice thick with more emotion than Aramis had heard from him before. "Who I loved more than anything."

Aramis hesitated. "Past tense?"

Athos's eyes swam with devastation. "She's dead." He took another hearty swig of wine.

Aramis didn't press for any more details, just sat in silence and sipped lightly at his own drink. If Athos found solace in alcohol, then at least something worked for him.

Aramis shifted his gaze across the room and watched Porthos enjoying his card game, the large man's boisterous shouts of victory hard to miss even among the normal din.

"He cheats," Athos suddenly said bluntly, halfway through his second bottle.

Aramis arched a brow in surprise that the man had caught onto that, inebriated as he was. "We all have our vices," he said, eyes automatically searching out Suzette. He caught her gaze and threw her a rakish grin, to which she waggled her brows suggestively.

He was tempted to sneak off with her, as he had done in the past. But that was…before. Now something held him back. Before Savoy, he had loved freely, and part of him yearned to do so again, to feel the solace of a woman's embrace and for a night banish the ghosts that haunted him.

But they would still be there, and his heart was also a raw wound still. Aramis feared that his careful mask would slip if he exposed himself. After all, he still woke in the middle of the night with a breathless scream. And he would not darken a woman's bed in that way.

So he remained sitting at Athos's table and watched Porthos enjoy his evening, as he seemed to be the only one of the three of them to actually be doing so. And then at the end of the night, he helped Porthos take a sloshed Athos back to his apartments and tuck him in.

On their way out, Aramis withdrew a pouch of herbs from his jacket and set it on the table for Athos to find in the morning. Then he and Porthos headed back to the garrison where Aramis would find his own restless sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Porthos stood at attention near the edge of the palace gardens while the staggered crack of musket fire shattered the tranquility of the morning. King Louis's face puckered in displeasure as he missed his shot and the pigeon flew into the woods. He quickly exchanged his musket for a freshly primed one and ordered the release of the next bird.

Porthos watched Aramis out of the corner of his eye. It was his first day back on full duty and Porthos worried the noise would cause a headache. But Aramis seemed fine: posture straight and color normal, which couldn't have made Porthos happier.

Rather, it was Athos who was looking piqued, grimacing with each shot, and Porthos knew the man wasn't squeamish about killing a few birds. Unlike the Queen, who was sitting under a canopy trying not to watch. Athos was standing closest to her, but her own distress made it so that she didn't seem to notice her musketeer guard's discomfort. Fortunate for him. The Queen had a kind heart and if she noticed Athos looking ill, she'd likely dismiss him with instructions to rest, which would get back to Captain Treville, who would then demand an accounting of _what_ exactly Athos was ill with.

Porthos began to fidget at the thought of being drawn into that conversation. He would never lie to the captain—outright—but if Treville directly asked him what was wrong with Athos, Porthos didn't know what he would say. He felt a certain loyalty to both men and didn't want to betray either. Besides, it wasn't their business what Athos did on his own time off duty.

Except, it was starting to affect his performance. Aramis's remedies could only do so much when Athos kept insisting on getting black-out drunk every night. Porthos understood loss and could empathize with Athos's pain over grieving a loved one, but he'd never taken to the bottle in this extreme, and he didn't know what to make of it. He just kept hoping the man would eventually get it out of his system.

Movement had Porthos looking over as the Cardinal strode toward them.

"Your Majesty," the pompous man greeted. "I have an important matter we need to discuss."

King Louis lowered his musket and rolled his eyes. "I'm rather busy, Cardinal."

"Apologies, Your Majesty," the man said ingratiatingly. "But I'm afraid matters of state must take precedence over personal pursuits."

Louis huffed like a spoiled child and handed his musket to a servant. "Very well," he pouted and followed the Cardinal back toward the palace.

The Queen stood up. "I would like to go inside as well," she said.

The musketeers bowed as she and her ladies-in-waiting left, suddenly free for the rest of the morning since their guard posts didn't include covering the interior of the palace, only the grounds outside. The two remaining servants busied themselves with packing up the muskets and retrieving the dead pigeons.

As the musketeers began to leave, one of the red guards, Bacque, grabbed a dead bird from the servant and slapped it against Porthos's chest.

"You should be the one picking up carcasses."

Porthos gritted his teeth and held himself rigid as the bird dropped to the ground. He flicked his gaze down to the small stain of blood left on his blue cloak, a growl working its way out of his throat.

The red guard smirked. "Pick it up. It's what your kind is good for."

Porthos's hands furled into fists and he was on the verge of letting them fly, but suddenly Athos was surging past his shoulder and shoving Bacque in the chest so hard that the man almost tripped backward.

"Say that again!" Athos shouted.

Porthos found himself stunned stupid—he'd never heard Athos raise his voice before, had never seen him react with anything other than perfectly controlled airs. But right now, he looked absolutely _livid_.

Bacque shot him a vitriolic glare. "Mind your own business!"

"Accosting a musketeer is my business."

The guard snorted. "That mutt is no musketeer."

Porthos clenched his jaw at the insult. Even though he was used to it, it didn't make the bite hurt any less.

Athos drew his sword from its scabbard and looked ready to cut down Bacque right there, but then Aramis leaped in and seized Athos's wrist to stay his hand.

"Gentlemen, I enjoy a duel as much as the next fellow, but perhaps we should refrain from such illicit activities while still on palace grounds?"

The men continued to glare at each other. Athos was practically vibrating with rage, which doused most of Porthos's own and left him confused more than anything.

Athos finally lowered his sword. "A duel. One o'clock, on the back road outside the east gate."

Bacque sneered. "I'll be there." He spun on his heel and strode off, the other red guard jogging to keep up.

Porthos crossed his arms and leveled a look at Athos. "That eager for a fight, huh?"

Athos just looked at him, all that raging emotion now carefully concealed behind his mask again. "He insulted you."

Porthos huffed. "So yer defendin' my honor?"

"That man needs to be taught a lesson," Athos replied.

"He does," Aramis put in and looked at Porthos with a grim expression. "How much has he been harassing you these past several weeks?"

Porthos shrugged. "It's nothin' I ain't heard before."

Aramis's eyes darkened with anger—and guilt. Porthos knew what he was thinking, that he hadn't been here.

"Stop it. I appreciate you bein' willin' to stand up fer me, but I can take care of myself ya know."

Aramis clapped him on the shoulder. "I know, but you shouldn't have to. Not alone, anyway." He turned to Athos. "Are you really going to go through with the duel?"

Athos looked affronted. "I do not renege on a challenge issued and accepted. And I cannot abide his disrespect for any musketeer. Would you?"

"Of course not. I'm just surprised you beat me to it," Aramis replied.

Athos glanced at Porthos. "That man was wrong."

And it was as simple as that.

Porthos exchanged a look with Aramis, whose mouth quirked in a small smile. He cracked a grin of his own. "I would like to see that piss-pot get a good thrashin'," he said, slinging an arm over Athos's shoulders as they headed off so they could get ready for Athos's duel.

o.0.o

Athos slipped into the garrison kitchen hoping to find some water already heated. Fortunately, there was a pot over the hearth that looked like Serge was getting ready to make some stew with. The old cook was currently down in the storehouse, so Athos quickly scooped out a cup of hot water and added some of those herbs Aramis had given him so he could drink them before the duel. He needed to clear his slightly blurry vision and soothe his disgruntled stomach if he didn't want to look like a fool in the fight.

He mentally berated himself for losing control like that. Not that it wasn't warranted, but Athos had come close to violating the laws of chivalry and cutting Bacque down where he stood. He usually had a much better handle on his anger, unleashing it when there was cause and holding it close to the vest when there wasn't. There was cause here, but his explosion hadn't been a conscious decision.

He ran a hand down his face while he waited for the herbs to steep. They should have rested for five minutes but he was growing impatient and so downed the whole cup as quickly as he could. The hot water scalded his mouth and throat and he nearly coughed the tea back up. He grabbed some wine off the shelf and chased everything down with a few swigs, counting on the alcohol to dispel the rest of his jitters. Then he shook himself off and strode out of the kitchen with his usual composure restored.

With Porthos and Aramis in tow, the three made their way to the designated place for the duel. Bacque arrived at the same time with a group of several red guards, all of them looking eager for blood.

Athos shrugged out of his coat and searched for a tree branch to drape it over, but Aramis took it instead, along with his pistol, as this was a duel of swords.

Down the road, Bacque was also getting ready, apparently spouting jeers that made his posse guffaw and leer at the musketeers.

Athos focused on taking deep, steady breaths. If he were honest with himself, he was not in the best shape for this. But he'd instigated it, and honor demanded he see it through.

He and Bacque met in the middle of the road, a sword's length between them. Porthos walked over, his bandana in hand and an anticipatory gleam in his eye. He raised the piece of fabric and let it drop, leaping out of the way as the participants lunged. Steel clashed with a strident shriek as several swings and parries flurried back and forth. Athos was chagrined to note his form and movements were sloppy, yet even so he was still significantly better than this oaf. He would have disarmed him in a matter of minutes if a wave of dizziness hadn't struck at just that moment.

Athos stumbled and barely twisted out of the way in time to avoid getting sliced. Now he and Bacque had reversed positions and Athos could see the slight furrow in Aramis's and Porthos's expressions as they watched. Athos's pride bristled at his own weakness and he launched a zealous attack, driving Bacque back until Aramis and Porthos had to scamper out of the way.

Incensed, Bacque lunged more forcefully, trying to get under Athos's guard. He arced his parrying dagger down to catch Barque's blade and drive it to the ground. The man had no choice but to release the grip or fall. He wavered though, upsetting his balance by the time his hand slipped free of the hilt. Athos swung his rapier around and sliced across the red guard's collar bone as he pitched backward and landed hard in the dirt. Athos stood over him, the victor.

It took him a moment to catch his breath and step away, and when he did he found Porthos and Aramis grinning widely at him. Athos felt a strange sense of appreciation for their presence. He hadn't intended to befriend anyone when he joined the Musketeers, but these two men had offered companionship without judgement or questions, making the transition so seamless that Athos had barely realized it'd happened.

"Drinks on me tonight," Porthos beamed, clapping him on the back.

Athos's mouth twitched slightly, though perhaps it was the call of wine that he found so alluring.

Aramis handed his coat back and the three musketeers sauntered off, leaving the red guard to pick up their wounded prides. Unfortunately, it was too early to head to the tavern for a celebratory drink and so they returned to the garrison.

Captain Treville was standing on the balcony outside of his office, hands braced on the railing. "Athos!" he barked the moment they strode into the yard. He promptly turned to enter his office without anything further.

Porthos and Aramis exchanged nervous looks.

"Surely he couldn't have heard that quickly," Aramis said.

Porthos shook his head. "I don' know how he knows half the things he does."

Athos simply shrugged. He would accept the consequences of his actions. He made his way up the stairs to the second level. The door to the captain's office was closed, so he knocked to announce his entrance as he opened it and stepped inside. "You wanted to see me?" he asked, coming to stand at attention in the middle of the room.

Treville rounded his desk and stepped right into Athos's face. "I gave you a chance in this regiment and what are you doing with it?"

Athos remained stoic in the face of the captain's displeasure. "Sometimes a man must stand up for what is right."

"Is that what you call reeking of wine and swaying where you stand every morning?" Treville snapped.

Athos hesitated, caught off guard. This wasn't about the duel?

When he didn't respond quickly enough, Treville continued sharply, "I saw an honorable man beneath all this. Are you going to prove me a bad judge of character?"

Athos automatically lifted his chin. "No."

Treville stared him down for a long, hard moment, and it took all of Athos's willpower not to reveal any weakness.

The captain finally stepped back, giving him breathing space. "Then see to it," he said.

Athos took that as a dismissal and quickly pivoted to head out the door.

Aramis and Porthos were waiting for him at the base of the stairs.

"You in trouble over the duel?" Porthos asked. "Because I can tell the captain it wasn't yer fault."

"No," he swiftly replied. "Treville wanted to speak to me of another matter."

Aramis and Porthos exchanged surprised looks.

"Oh, that's a relief," Aramis said. "What other matter?"

"It wasn't important," Athos brushed off.

Except that it was. Only, Athos didn't know what he could do about it. He was trying, had been trying, and was functioning the best he could.

The problem was, his best was far from good enough.


	5. Chapter 5

Despite the dressing-down he'd received in Treville's office, Athos continued to drink every night. He knew he was barely functioning during the day, but without the wine to blunt his mental anguish, he wouldn't be functioning at all.

Aramis would eye him speculatively in the tavern as Athos downed bottle after bottle but wouldn't comment. Athos recalled the young man saying he couldn't get drunk because the nightmares wouldn't release him; Athos's nightmares wouldn't quieten unless he was far too drunk to feel their effects.

Sitting at the table now while he nursed his first bottle of the evening, the weight of crushing grief and guilt compressed his chest like a vise and constricted his lungs until he couldn't breathe. He knocked back a swig of wine, desperate to numb some of the anguish that refused to release its grip on him. It was suffocating. His fingers grasped the bottleneck and twisted over and over until the sensation of wringing _her_ neck overwhelmed him and he jerked away with a gasp. No, his hands had not held the rope.

But they might as well have. It was his duty to pass judgement and sentence. He was only following the law. Following his _duty_.

His eyes grew hot and wet and he gulped down more wine to burn the tears away. He didn't think he still had a heart after Anne's betrayal had clawed it out and left it bleeding and broken on the floor beside his brother's body, but, God help him, he loved her still. Love and hate: two irreconcilable states of being that when warring within one heart could only tear it asunder.

Which was why Athos drank, and drank.

The following morning he barely rolled over on his mattress in time to throw up on the floor, though there was little to come up. The stench triggered his gag reflex and he continued to dry heave for several minutes, which made his skull feel like it was splitting down the center. He lay half suspended over the side of the bed for a long time, shivering as his body cycled through hot and cold too quickly to keep up with.

Somehow he finally managed to slide onto the floor, avoiding the mess. He reached under the bed and flailed his arm around until he found one of his bottles. There were a few mouthfuls sloshing at the bottom and he quickly sucked them down. Then he crawled on his hands and knees for a bucket and rag and began to clean up the puddle of sick.

He felt absolutely wretched and wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed but instead rinsed out his mouth and managed to dress. Then he headed for the Musketeer garrison, the sun exceptionally bright that morning and a little too high already. He was late.

Porthos and Aramis were striding out of the archway by the time he arrived.

"He lives," Aramis declared with a flourished arm.

Porthos snorted. "Barely, by the looks of it."

"That just supports the theory we told the captain that he had perhaps fallen ill."

Athos reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Is the captain angry?"

Aramis grimaced sympathetically. "I'd say working his way up to apoplectic."

Athos's head was in no shape for enduring a loud lecture right now. "You two heading somewhere?" he asked.

"A Huguenot church," Aramis replied. "Apparently they've been spreading some inflammatory pamphlets and we're being sent to kindly ask them to stop."

Porthos huffed. "Those weren't the words the captain used."

Aramis shrugged one shoulder. "I like to be polite."

Athos's head could barely tolerate their back and forth but it was preferable to the angry barking he'd likely get if he walked into the garrison.

"I'll go with you," he said. That way when they got back he'd hopefully be in better shape to face Treville, and be able to say that he _had_ reported for duty.

The three of them made their way through the streets of Paris. Athos kept the brim of his hat low to help shield his eyes from the wretched sun. At some point, one of the other two pressed a small muffin into his hand. Athos hadn't even seen who it was step away to purchase the item from a merchant stall. His stomach was empty though and sloshing with acidic bile, so he nibbled at the bread in the hopes of settling it.

They reached the church, a small, rundown old building with only a steeple on the roof to denote its religious nature. Athos stuffed down the rest of his muffin. He may not have held any love for God, but he would not disrespect someone else's sacred establishment with crumbs.

The musketeers entered through the front doors and Athos found the dim interior much easier on his senses.

"Hello?" Aramis called.

The place seemed empty, the chapel small with a quarter of the pews found in a grand Catholic church.

A few moments later, a man strode out from a back hallway. "Yes?"

"Good day, monsieur," Aramis greeted, removing his hat. "Is this your parish?"

"It is." The man's gaze swept over their uniforms and he visibly stiffened. "This is a house of God; you have no business here."

"Unfortunately, we do," Aramis replied. "It's come to the King's attention that your church has been spreading some inflammatory language against the Catholic Church."

"We have done no such thing. We preach God's Word here."

"God's Word teaches love for all people."

The preacher's lips curled up in a bitter sneer. "And yet the Catholic Church persecutes those of the Protestant faith with malicious bias. We have the right to defend ourselves."

"War from either side will only hurt a lot of innocent people," Aramis pointed out.

"Innocent people are being hurt in the name of God," he spat.

Athos closed his eyes and tuned out the argument. He'd found that one could not argue with zealots.

Porthos nudged him. "We should look around," he muttered.

Athos held back a sigh and shrugged. If they must.

Aramis gave them a pointed look as they headed toward the back hallway while he remained with the preacher.

"You cannot invade a house of God!" the man protested.

"If you have nothing to hide then there should be no problem," Aramis replied smoothly, somehow able to maintain a courteous tone. Athos likely would have shoved the pompous man by now.

He and Porthos walked down the hall. There was an open door at the end, but before they reached it, Athos staggered under a wave of nausea and dizziness. His stomach churned, suddenly rejecting the muffin from earlier with caustic force. Porthos had already entered the back room.

There was a side door into an alley and Athos ducked through it just in time to bow forward and vomit his breakfast. He spat into the dirt, his head pounding even worse now.

A loud crash echoed from within, followed by Porthos shouting his name. Athos turned and stumbled back inside, lurching frantically toward the back room. Inside he found Porthos fighting three men.

Athos drew his sword and lunged, but one of the attackers spun around and swung a club that caught him in the arm and sent him sprawling on the floor where he lay too dazed to get up quickly enough.

Porthos bellowed and body slammed one of his assailants, then leaped at the one about to run Athos through, cutting him down instead. The body fell next to Athos, lifeless.

One of the other men leaped at Porthos as he turned, a dagger's blade piercing the flesh of his upper arm and punching out the other side. Porthos threw his head back with a guttural cry.

Then Aramis was charging into the room, sword drawn, and within a few deft moves, dispatched the remaining two attackers in the time it took Athos to pull himself off the floor.

"Porthos!" Aramis exclaimed, dropping his blade and rushing forward.

Porthos sagged against a large metal contraption that Athos now recognized as a printing press, clutching his arm that was skewered with the dagger. "Looks like the reports were true," he grunted, breathing harshly through his nose between words.

Aramis gripped his arm above and below the protruding blade. "It went through muscle, not bone," he declared with a measure of relief.

"Get it out," Porthos growled.

Aramis snatched Porthos's bandana from his pocket and began to wrap it around the exposed parts of the dagger. "Not yet, I'm afraid. We need to wait till we're in the infirmary with the proper tools." He shot a worried look at Athos. "Are you injured?"

"No." Only because Porthos had jumped in to save him, exposing himself to injury instead.

Aramis's frown deepened at his disheveled appearance and Athos turned away.

"What of the preacher?"

"He probably ran when I came to investigate the commotion," Aramis answered. "We'll report this to Treville, and the printing press will be confiscated and a warrant issued for the preacher's arrest."

He supposed that made the mission a success. The inflammatory pamphlets would cease and half the operation lay slain on the floor. But Athos couldn't shake the feeling of failure on his part.

They slowly made their way back to the garrison, Porthos clenching his jaw stoically against the pain of having a knife stuck in his arm. When they reached the infirmary, Athos had expected a surgeon to be called. He was bewildered when Aramis took charge and directed Porthos to lay on the long table. The man then fetched a pouch of tools from a shelf and began to set them out.

Aramis unwound the bandana from the blade. "Ready?"

"Been ready," Porthos growled.

Aramis took hold of the hilt and pulled the blade out, a raging cry tearing from Porthos's throat. Aramis quickly took the bandana again and clamped it around the wounds.

"We'll just give it a few moments for the bleeding to slow," he said.

Porthos squeezed his eyes shut and nodded.

Athos continued to watch in amazement as Aramis cleaned the wounds and then began to thread a needle.

Porthos watched, pallor turning a sickly shade of green. "I don' like this," he muttered.

"No one does, my friend. Now please don't move. You are a terrible patient and I have a reputation for needlework to uphold."

Porthos grunted but closed his eyes tightly, his entire body tensing up.

As Aramis jabbed the needle into flesh, Athos's stomach revolted again and he turned to beat a hasty retreat outside, swallowing bile in an effort not to throw up again.

He stumbled into the kitchen, ignoring Serge's protests as he snatched some wine from the back and gulped it down desperately.

"Oy! This ain't a tavern, you know."

"Apologies," Athos gasped between swallows. "I'll replace it."

Serge just continued to stare at him with narrowed eyes. "Reckon that was Porthos I 'eard a few minutes ago. That or a wounded bull. He a'right?"

Athos slowly nodded. "Aramis is tending to him." His stomach churned again.

Serge bobbed his head as though in understanding and left him alone after that.

Athos wasn't sure how long he stayed in the kitchen, but eventually he ventured back out, veering toward the now quiet infirmary. Before he could work up the nerve to go inside, the door opened and Aramis stepped out.

"How's Porthos?" Athos asked thickly.

Aramis's gaze dropped to the wine jug Athos hadn't realized he'd brought out with him. In a flash, the man suddenly had Athos by the lapels of his coat and was slamming him back against the wall.

"Where were you?" Aramis hissed.

Athos blinked, stunned. "You seemed to have everything well in hand."

"Not here. At the church. I heard Porthos yell for you. You went down that hall together. So _where were you_?" he seethed.

Athos couldn't form a response to that.

Aramis's gaze once again lowered to the wine bottle that had miraculously stayed in Athos's grip. Because if there was one thing he never let go of, it was that.

Aramis's eyes darkened. "Porthos was depending on you! The Musketeers are a brotherhood that's supposed to be there for each other, not let each other down!"

The fury, fire, and desperate terror in Aramis's gaze let Athos know that he was talking about more than this incident. Especially since Porthos was likely to be fine.

Athos kept his voice level as he met Aramis's eyes. "It won't happen again."

And it wouldn't. _Couldn't_. His attention drifted toward the bottle still in his hand and he realized the truth—the alcohol had the hold on him, not the other way around. He was now at a crossroads: continue on this path that would only lead to death by the bottle, or break the cycle.

Because Aramis was right; Athos hadn't had Porthos's back in that church. He hadn't been by his side to fight off three attackers, and hadn't been in any shape to lend aid when he had blundered in, too sick to do anything but be a distraction to both sides. And Porthos had been wounded because of it. He could have suffered much worse.

Aramis seemed to give himself a small shake and abruptly pulled back. "Porthos will be fine," he said, almost more to himself than to Athos. "I need to report to Treville."

"I'll do it," Athos said.

Aramis hesitated, but then nodded and went back inside the infirmary.

Athos slowly set the bottle of wine on the ground. Then he pulled his shoulders back and trudged heavily up the steps to Treville's office.

The captain listened to his report with a shrewd look, and Athos knew he didn't have to confess his negligence out loud.

He cleared his throat at the end of it. "I'm going to need a few days to take care of a personal matter," he said. "But when I return, you will have my full commitment as promised."

Treville eyed him for a long moment that made Athos feel like a school boy under his father's discipline. "Very well," Treville finally said.

Athos swallowed hard and left, his heart quailing at what he knew he had to do next.


	6. Chapter 6

Aramis had just finished fashioning a sling for Porthos when Captain Treville walked in.

"How is he?"

"He was lucky," Aramis replied.

Porthos forced out a strained grin. "I got the best seamstress in all o' Paris to patch me up," he quipped, but Aramis knew he was only trying to cover his squeamishness from having to endure the process. They were also fortunate the puncture wounds hadn't been very long, or Aramis would have had to summon reinforcements to get the stitching done.

Treville nodded. "You'll be on light duty for a few days."

Porthos heaved a sigh but nodded. "Where'd Athos go? He wasn't lookin' too good himself."

"Athos is taking a few days of personal leave," Treville said.

Porthos straightened. "But, Captain, you can't punish him. It wasn't his fault he was ill," he protested incredulously.

Aramis held his tongue and busied himself with cleaning the suturing instruments. It was entirely Athos's fault he was ill; he'd let his addiction affect his ability to do his duty as a musketeer, and it could have cost Porthos his life. But Aramis understood Porthos's loyalty, which was why he wasn't going to say anything about what happened, at least not here. But he would have to address his concerns at some point, because if Athos couldn't be counted on, he was putting them all at risk.

"It's not punishment," Treville said. "Though he is bound to be in for one given what he's going to attempt."

Aramis frowned. "What's he going to attempt?"

Treville met his gaze with a serious one of his own. "Getting sober."

Aramis blinked, taken aback. "You ordered him to?"

"No. It was his decision. It had to be his decision, though he wouldn't have made it much longer in the regiment if he'd continued this way."

So the captain hadn't been blind to it, of course. It _was_ hard to miss. And, Aramis realized, given the amount of wine Athos was used to consuming and the length of his habit, sweating out the toxins was going to be tortuous.

Aramis packed away the suturing tools and cleared his throat. "Captain, I would like to request a few days off. This was my first fight since coming back to full duty and I fear it took more out of me than expected."

Treville just gave him a look that wasn't fooled one bit. "Granted." He turned to leave, calling over his shoulder, "Good luck."

Porthos quirked a brow at Aramis after the captain left. "We gonna help Athos?"

"Yes." Aramis began gathering up supplies from the infirmary's stock—various herbs and tonics that would come in handy while Athos was in the throes of drying out.

Porthos grunted as he slid off the table. "What should I grab?"

Aramis hesitated. "Porthos…you should stay here and rest. You were just wounded, and this thing with Athos…it will be bad."

"All the more reason for me to come wit' ya. 'Cause if you try to play nursemaid alone, yer likely to jus' make yerself sick too."

Aramis shook his head fondly. "Alright. Find me a satchel I can stuff all this in."

Porthos nodded and went to do that.

Aramis ran through a mental checklist of the items before he was satisfied, and when Porthos returned, Aramis packed them all in the bag. Then the two of them headed out to Athos's apartments. When they arrived, their initial knocks went unanswered.

Porthos frowned. "Think he went somewhere else? Or…" He lowered his voice. "Think he went to the tavern after all?"

Aramis didn't know. He pounded his fist on the door insistently. "Open up, Athos. I should tell you that Porthos is quite handy with a set of lock picks and we are not above using them." He waited a few beats before knocking loudly again.

Finally he heard a latch being pulled back and the door swung open. Athos stood before them, shirt disheveled and hair plastered to his head with sweat. He looked as ashen as a corpse.

"What do you want?" he snapped.

"You can't go through withdrawal like this alone," Aramis said calmly and pushed his way inside. He immediately wrinkled his nose at the stench pervading the small room and wondered how Athos could stand to live in it. But, he figured, like many living in squalor, they typically became desensitized to it.

"I didn't ask for help," Athos said abrasively.

"No, but you need it." Aramis walked over to a table and began setting out the pouches and vials of herbs and tonics. "I brought everything that might help ease the symptoms from the body cleansing itself of toxins, but I warn you it won't be easy."

"Nothing about my life has been easy," Athos replied bitterly, sagging against the wall.

Normally Aramis would consider that an opening to inquire further, but he wasn't going to take advantage of Athos's already agitated state and push him into divulging something he didn't want to.

Porthos stepped inside and shut the door.

Athos flicked his gaze to him. "You shouldn't be here."

"I shouldn't be anywhere else," Porthos replied.

"It was my fault you were wounded."

"Some bloke got a lucky hit in is all."

Athos's expression darkened. "This will be…ugly," he gritted out.

"Porthos has experience with that," Aramis said as he mixed up a tonic in a cup. "He stayed by my side during my early days of recovery after Savoy." He tossed a pointed look at Athos. "I assure you that was far from pretty."

"That's what friends do," Porthos put in, giving them both meaningful looks.

Aramis walked over and handed the cup to Athos. "I apologize for my outburst earlier. I have no right to judge what lengths a man must go to in order to escape his ghosts."

Athos stared at him for a prolonged beat before taking the cup and ducking his head in what Aramis took as an acceptance of his apology.

Athos then shuffled his way to the bed and half collapsed onto it. Aramis pulled a chair over for Porthos and then puttered around, tidying up a bit and taking the bucket down to the well to change out the water.

As evening turned into night, Athos began tossing and turning on the bed, moans slipping past his lips periodically. Aramis plied him with herbal remedies and soaked cloths in cold water to lay across his brow. They seemed to do little and Athos soon became agitated and tried to get up.

"I need some wine," he groaned.

Aramis fought to push him back down. "You do not. The drink does not control you." He moved back to the table to try mixing up a different concoction.

Athos keened and lurched from the bed again. Porthos bodily blocked him from reaching the door and wrestled him back, grunting as he aggravated his injured arm. He finally ripped off the sling so he could manhandle Athos back into bed.

"Mind my needlework," Aramis chastised, hurrying back over with a cup of bitter brew.

Athos tossed his head to the side and refused to drink, so they had to hold him still and force it down his throat.

"Get out!" he raged at them, spittle flying into his beard.

"Are you a musketeer or not?" Aramis shouted back.

Athos thrashed some more before the herbs Aramis had given him stole some of his strength and he slipped into a fitful doze. The name "Anne" spilled from his lips in heartbroken pleas.

"Who do you think she is?" Porthos asked quietly after it went on for several minutes.

"Probably the name of the woman he said he loved but who died," Aramis replied. "And the reason I suspect he drinks as he does."

Porthos's expression pinched with distress. "I don't like the idea of him puttin' himself through this jus' because he feels guilty about me."

"It's necessary. He was slowly killing himself, and if he continued the way he was going, he would have lost his commission and his life."

Porthos watched Athos writhe on the bed for several moments. "Can he die from this?"

Aramis didn't answer right away. The truth was the strain could overtax him.

"I've seen his fire," he finally said. "Hopefully it's enough to keep him fighting."

o.0.o

Athos woke drenched in a cold sweat, feeling groggy and horribly weak, like his limbs were detached appendages he could see but not feel. He felt as wretched as ever, yet there was a clarity in his mind he hadn't realized he'd been missing for quite some time. It was like being dunked in a frigid lake whose glacial barbs hooked themselves into every fiber of his being and left him suspended above a void.

Aramis appeared in his field of vision, shirt sleeves rolled up and hair sticking out at askew angles. He didn't say anything, merely reached for a cup and bent down to lift Athos's head slightly and tip the rim against his lips. Cool water splashed into his mouth, slaking a thirst he hadn't registered until that moment, and then he gulped desperately. Aramis pulled the cup away after a moment.

"Easy. Too fast and you'll make yourself sick."

Athos swallowed a few times and roved his gaze around the room. What looked like morning light was spilling through the open window, illuminating a clutter of items on the table and nightstand. He spotted Porthos sitting on the floor propped against the wall, eyes closed and snoring. The large man looked exhausted, as did Aramis, and Athos could have sworn both were wearing different shirts than he last recalled seeing.

"What day is it?" he croaked.

"Friday."

It took him a moment too long to realize that was five days past the last thing he clearly remembered. Everything since was just a haze of misery and sickness…and the blurred faces of Aramis and Porthos.

"Have you been here the whole time?" he asked, mortified.

"Yes," Aramis answered. "You're past the worst of it now."

Athos struggled to get his arms to work and tried to push himself upright. Aramis reached over and helped, easing him back and propping the pillow up behind him. He felt as weak as a newborn babe and wondered if it was worth it.

Aramis wet a cloth and handed it to him. With trembling limbs, Athos attempted to wipe down his face and hands. When he was done, Aramis took the cloth away but lingered, looking hesitant.

"I understand loss and grief," he finally said. "It can be all-consuming, like drowning standing up. You wonder why some people die and why you…" He broke off and dropped his gaze. "Why others don't. Sometimes being alive feels more like a burden than a blessing."

Athos had turned his head away, the words resonating far too personally and reminding him why he'd needed the alcohol in the first place.

"The only thing we can do in the face of tremendous loss is find new reasons to keep going," Aramis went on. He paused. "You chose to get sober, so you must have found a reason."

Athos didn't say anything.

"Living on doesn't dishonor those who are gone," he continued. "Rather, it honors them."

Athos thought there was nothing he could do that could honor the memory of the dead wife he'd killed. But Aramis was correct in that he had found a reason to do better. It didn't seem like much right now, but Athos had devoted his life to the Musketeers, and he would not let them down again.

Then it hit him: assuming he had the Musketeers to go back to. The three of them had been absent for five days.

"Treville will be furious at our dereliction of duty."

Aramis shrugged. "I don't think so. He knows that when you have something good, you hold onto it."

Something about the words and tone felt laden with extra meaning, though Athos was too spent to parse it out. It would be an uphill battle from this point forward. But he'd come this far; he may as well see it through.

o.0.o

The next few days were shaky ground for Athos, but Porthos and Aramis made a point of including him in normal activities, pushing him to train with them even though his strength had to be rebuilt from the ground up. He'd seen Aramis do it, though, and was determined to do the same. And he gradually found his footing again.

Sobriety brought a sharpened edge to the pain in his heart when he thought of Anne, yet at the same time reminded him of why he could not let himself fall down that hole again. He still drank, of course. His body had built-up quite a tolerance so that a little indulgence here and there didn't send him spiraling out of control. He drank just enough to be social and to blunt the dreams at night. And while he sometimes felt like horse shit in the morning, he was able to rouse himself from bed and engage in his duties without hindrance.

Aramis and Porthos never spoke of the incident, not his weakness and vulnerability in front of them nor the mistake that had caused Porthos's injury. His arm was out of the sling and the large man seemed positively happy the more time the three of them spent together. And when red guards insulted his heritage in the taverns at night, Athos was only too happy to oblige them in a duel. It _was_ rather satisfying how much his swordsmanship had improved without being inhibited by wine.

He finally got a chance to spar with Aramis as well, who was able to keep up with Athos quite skillfully. Athos beat him, unhampered by dizziness and nausea, and he found pleasure in the exercise of a near equal match.

"Hey, Athos," Porthos called out from where he'd just watched a round. "How's your marksmanship?"

"Adequate," he replied. "Why?"

Porthos grinned almost manically. "Aramis is the best in the regiment, probably all of France."

"Porthos is being too generous," Aramis interjected. "It's probably just all of Paris."

Athos arched a brow and sheathed his sword. "Then perhaps a demonstration is in order."

Lips twitching his beard, Aramis retrieved his musket from where it lay on the table and walked toward one end of the yard opposite the targets that had been left up from someone else's practice earlier. Athos watched him take aim from further back than he knew most of the soldiers practiced at. He half expected the man's overconfidence to backfire, but Aramis took his time lining up the target, and when his finger squeezed the trigger and the shot cracked the air, the ball struck true dead center.

Athos's brows rose. He was indeed impressed.

Aramis flashed him a cocky grin, which seemed well-deserved given that display. He called Porthos over and met him in the center of the yard, then proceeded to reload the musket and pass it to him. As Porthos raised it to take aim, Aramis coached him with some tips on sighting down the barrel and how to control his breathing in preparation for making the shot.

Athos was content to watch. Despite how different the three of them were, he was beginning to realize they had a lot they could teach each other.

He spotted Captain Treville standing on the balcony, hands braced on the rail as he also watched, a glint of quiet approval in his eye. Athos met his gaze and they exchanged a nod.

It was onwards and upwards from here.


	7. Chapter 7

It had been a long while since Aramis had been outside of Paris, and he found the normally dull task of escorting a tax collector and his inordinate amount of gold back to the treasury a welcome change of pace and scenery. Five musketeers had been assigned to this errand. Hugo and Benett had always been friendly with Aramis, but with Porthos on this mission as well, they'd kept their distance, riding along the outskirts of their traveling party. Aramis let them. They went out of their way to avoid the darker skinned musketeer; Aramis wouldn't go out of his way to engage them. Besides, he was perfectly content with Porthos and Athos for company as they rode through the countryside. The banter between them came naturally, like they had always been friends. Or perhaps more like brothers. The Musketeers were like family to Aramis, and he was beginning to fill some of the void left by twenty deaths and one deserter.

"You should try ta shoot blindfolded," Porthos said as they were making the return trip on the second day.

Aramis shot him an incredulous look. "Why?"

"Yer already the best at shootin' normal. Shootin' blind is next, naturally."

"Naturally," Athos put in dryly.

Aramis shook his head in amusement, though he had to admit he was somewhat intrigued by the idea.

"I can shoot a melon off a man's head," Porthos announced.

"Now that's a daring trick," Aramis replied. "Of course, you'd need a fool to stand still long enough to let you try."

Porthos harrumphed. "I've done it several times. When we get back to Paris I'll show ya."

"If we find a fool," Aramis said with a grin.

"And a melon," Athos added drolly.

A few paces ahead, the tax collector they were escorting kept craning his neck around to glance back at them as though he thought them mad.

Aramis smirked as he raised his voice a little. "I'll do it then."

"And there's the fool," Athos commented.

"Drinks on me if he makes the shot," Aramis went on, undaunted.

"Er," Porthos hedged. "Drinks first. My luck ain't so good if I haven't had a few."

Aramis gaped at him, trying to determine whether he was being serious. By the hesitant shrug, it seemed so. "Let me get this straight; you can only shoot a melon off a man's head if you're drunk?"

"Yeah," he replied, seeming somewhat embarrassed. "I was drunk the first time I tried it, jus' messin' around wit' some friends. Everyone was mighty impressed. And then I made the shot a few more times after having a bit of ale. So I thought I'd try it when sober." He paused.

"And?" Aramis prompted.

"Heh, guy lost an ear."

Aramis leaned back in his saddle.

"Rethinking your life choices?" Athos asked with a glint of amusement in his eye.

"No. Just that I will probably need a few drinks myself first too."

The tax collector kicked his horse into a trot and put some distance between them.

Aramis raised his brows. "Was it something I said?"

"He's probably questioning the competency of his guard," Athos replied.

"Well that's disrespectful; we're talking about having the skill to make impossible shots!"

"I thought we were discussing fools and melons."

"Perhaps someone of his softer disposition would appreciate talk of melon recipes instead," Hugo spoke up.

Three sets of eyes shot him surprised looks.

Hugo fidgeted almost self-consciously. "After you shoot the melon. So it doesn't go to waste."

Aramis beamed. "Melon soup. Melon crepes."

"Melon wine for Athos," Porthos suggested.

"No."

They continued throwing out melon suggestions as they quickened their pace to catch up with their charge, Hugo and then Benett engaging in the prattle, even so far as to speak to Porthos directly in an amiable fashion. Aramis couldn't help but grin. The easy rapport he, Athos, and Porthos shared had become contagious. It only took a few to start, and hopefully their acceptance would spread until the whole garrison recognized the greatness in their large friend that Aramis and Athos did.

They were an hour outside of Paris during a lull in conversation when Aramis's instincts prickled the hair on the back of his neck. He narrowed his eyes and scanned the tree line along the road. Something shifted behind a trunk, followed by a metallic glint.

"Ambush!" he shouted, swinging one leg over the neck of his horse to dismount. He whipped his sword free of its scabbard as several men swarmed out from the trees.

The bandits had spaced themselves out far enough so that they were attacking from ahead and behind the group of musketeers on the road. Aramis's blade met an opponent's first, but multiple clangs of steel followed a split second after. There were at least a dozen men, and the musketeers found themselves fighting two each. Hugo and Benett were closest to the tax collector they were escorting and were trying to shield him, but the man was pulling back on his horse's reins so sharply that the poor beast backed up into the fight, separating Benett from one of the bandits, who used the opportunity to drag the tax collector from his saddle.

Athos broke away from his opponents and ran to help, but they followed him.

Aramis managed to plant a boot in one guy's sternum and kick him away, giving himself an opening to draw his pistol and shoot someone coming at Athos's back. With the odds restored to one against two, he dropped the spent weapon and raised his sword to block a strike aimed at his neck. Their blades collided in a quick, successive staccato before Aramis was able to thrust past the bandit's defense and run him through.

He'd barely yanked his blade out before another came swinging at him. He pivoted to block it, the blades locking. The other bandit lashed out with his free hand and grabbed Aramis's arm, trying to wrench him away. He held fast though, the two of them grappling for the upper hand.

Until one of his shuffling steps didn't land on even ground and Aramis slipped, gravity pulling them both down an incline he'd failed to notice. They tumbled down the declivity in a mass of limbs, hitting a log or something at the bottom that finally split them apart. Aramis's head glanced off the side of it and he landed on his back in a daze, stars flitting across his vision.

The sounds of battle echoed distortedly, like he was listening to them from underwater. It faded though as the tree tops above him bent and warped, and he had to close his eyes against the sickening swirling.

Everything must have settled into senselessness for a time, because the next thing Aramis became aware of was the sound of shuffling to his right. He heard an angry grunt and his instincts screamed at him to move.

Shooting his eyes open, he rolled away in time to avoid the dagger point driving down and hitting the dirt where he'd been lying. Aramis nearly lost his balance as he moved into a crouch and his vision swam, briefly blurring his attacker, but he drew his main gauche from the back of his belt.

The figure solidified into the man who'd fallen with him just as the bandit lunged again. Aramis threw up his hand to catch the assailant's wrist, barely stopping the blade's momentum from piercing his chest. In the same moment, he thrust his own gauche forward, stabbing between the ribs. The bandit sucked in a sharp breath and froze, his dagger still poised above Aramis. But his strength bled away as quickly as blood started to, and Aramis shoved him away.

He staggered to his feet, breathing far too harshly, and reached a hand up to touch his aching head. His fingers didn't come away with blood, so that was good. He was feeling disoriented, though, and blinked a few times to try to steady himself.

Then he noticed the silence.

His gaze tracked up the incline, the stillness of the woods sending a rush of ice through his veins. Aramis lurched forward, lumbering up the rise with desperate haste. When he crested the top, he skidded to a stunned stop and stared. There were a few bodies on the ground, bandits. And galloping off into the distance were riders in blue.

Aramis could only stare for several long moments as the figures disappeared, leaving a small cloud of dust in their wake, unable to comprehend what his eyes were telling him.

Because he'd been left behind. Alone. With only the dead.

His heart started pounding and blood roared in his ears. A chill pierced his leathers and hooked its barbs into his marrow. His vision was darkening around the edges, and then the green and brown earth was morphing into white splashed with red. He squeezed his eyes shut against the macabre memory, but it was still there, burned into his mind's eye as clear as day. Marsac took off his uniform and walked away, leaving Aramis too dazed by his injuries to stumble after him. He collapsed to his knees in the snow, Renou's lifeless eyes staring up at him, throat split open in a gaping, garish grin. All around him were the bodies of his friends, his brothers. And then the crows came…

A bird's call snapped him out of the sinking stupor, but only because it was the light trill of a robin instead of the guttural croak of carrion come to feast on his flesh. Aramis blinked and the snow was gone, but the bodies remained. They weren't musketeers though; none of them were musketeers. Because the others had left…

Aramis gave himself a sharp shake. No. This wasn't Savoy and Porthos would never leave him. Neither would Athos, he didn't think. They had to be here somewhere, maybe wounded.

Heart rate ratcheting up, Aramis stumbled around the scene of the ambush in search of them. His head began to pulse behind one eye, small like a pinprick at first but slowly growing.

_No, not now_ , he silently pleaded. His friends could be in trouble; they needed him.

But there was no sign of anyone save the few slain bandits. Even the horses were gone.

Terror crooked its talons into Aramis's heart and squeezed. Maybe…maybe they _did_ leave him behind. Their duty was to protect the King's gold; they could have chosen to flee.

Aramis clenched his fists. No. No, there was no sign of pursuit and the dozen or so bandits couldn't have just disappeared. Something must have happened to them…

But despite the logic of his brain, his body was betraying him, shivering with remembered horror and fear. The harder he fought against his warring emotions, the more his head spun. The light from the sun started to jab through his eyes like a dagger. He reached a hand up to shield them and swayed in a half circle. His horse was gone, which meant so was his pouch of herbs. He could try to search the area to see if any happened to grow nearby but knew he would be fully incapacitated by the blinding pain in a matter of minutes.

He continued to lurch around the area though, looking for clues. The small pulses had migrated to both eyes now, and the entire sky was awash with lightning. His stomach churned and he bowed forward to vomit, the harsh motion only increasing the stabbing inside his head. All other thought fled in the face of such exquisite torture.

Aramis stumbled a few feet further before collapsing to his hands and knees, and then he managed to crawl a short distance more into some mild shade where he curled in on himself, lost to everything but the excruciating drilling into his skull.

o.0.o

Porthos came awake abruptly to the uncomfortable feeling of swaying back and forth while lying slumped on his stomach. When he caught an upside down view of the bottom side of a saddle, he tried to jerk upward but found he couldn't get the leverage with his wrists bound with rope. He attempted to kick, only to find his ankles similarly restrained.

The horse suddenly stopped and nickered, and then hands were grabbing at Porthos and hauling him down. Unable to catch his balance with his legs tied, he fell back against his captors, who promptly dragged him a few feet away and pushed him to sit on the ground. His eyes widened when Athos was escorted over next, his legs free until he was also thrust to the ground and then rope was lashed around his ankles as well.

The men moved away, and Porthos got a look at some ruins and an already made camp.

"What happened?" he asked quietly, wincing as the movement made him aware of an ache in his jaw. He worked his mandible back and forth to stretch it out.

"You received a rather spectacular punch to the face," Athos replied blandly.

He huffed. "Yeah, I can tell. The others get away?"

When it had become clear they were sorely outnumbered, Athos had yelled for the others to go. Porthos of course had thought nothing of fleeing while Athos was still fighting, the swordsman having been separated from his horse. So he'd mowed down as many ruffians as he could before one of them had apparently managed to knock him out.

"Yes," Athos replied under his breath. "They'll report to Treville soon. You weren't out for very long and we haven't traveled far from the site of the ambush."

That would certainly make it easier for the others to find them when they returned with reinforcements.

Porthos lowered his voice further. "Why ain't we dead?"

Athos's expression was as bored as ever. "They failed to get their hands on any of the gold, so now they are holding two musketeers for ransom instead."

Porthos leaned his head back and sighed. "The King'll never go for that," he muttered.

"No," Athos agreed.

"Can't believe we're gonna die fer a bunch of gold."

Porthos didn't mind serving his country and king, and dying for them was a risk that was just part of the job. But dying for _wealth_? Well, that always rubbed Porthos the wrong way.

"The others will be mounting a rescue," Athos replied calmly.

That was true. Aramis was out there, probably chomping at the bit to come get them. They just had to wait and hope their captors didn't change their minds about the musketeers' usefulness before help could come.


	8. Chapter 8

Porthos's backside was starting to hurt from sitting on the rough ground for so long. After the first hour, he'd started fidgeting trying to find a better position, but that had garnered several suspicious glares and a cuff on the side of the head when they'd thought he was trying to squirm free of his bonds. Athos had quietly told him to sit still after that. Which was easy for him to say; he never seemed bothered by anything.

A couple more hours after that and Porthos was getting hungry and thirsty. But before he could think about airing his complaints, the sound of multiple horses approaching drew everyone's attention. Several of the bandits jumped to their feet and put their hands on their swords. One of them walked to the crumbling archway and peered out.

"I received your ransom note!" Treville's voice called out. "I have the gold."

Porthos straightened in anticipation. He sincerely doubted even the captain would pay their ransom; it had to be a ruse.

"Come forward slowly," the man by the arch shouted back.

Porthos watched tensely as Treville and Hugo walked into the ruins, Hugo leading a horse laden with saddlebags. Their gazes swept over the bound musketeers briefly.

The lead bandit backed up a few steps. "Show me the gold," he demanded.

Treville gave a curt nod to Hugo, who hefted one of the saddlebags off the horse and lowered it to the ground. The leader of the raiding party leaned closer to get a look, and then a musket shot cracked the air and he jerked from the impact of a ball. Treville and Hugo whipped out their pistols and fired into the crowd of bandits now charging toward them just as a cry rose up from behind and musketeers came leaping over one of the crumbling back walls.

Now Porthos strained against his bonds in order to join the fight, but the ropes were fastened tightly and he was only succeeding in pinching his skin painfully.

A bandit tripped and went sprawling at his feet. Porthos kicked out with both legs to keep him down.

The battle was over quickly with half the bandits slain and the others having surrendered. A musketeer came over and cut Porthos and Athos free of their bonds. Porthos shook out his limbs as he stood.

Treville walked up to them, giving them both a quick once-over. "Where's Aramis?"

Porthos stiffened. "What do you mean where's Aramis?"

Treville's eyes crinkled. "He wasn't captured with you?"

"No. He wasn't with the rest of you?" Porthos whipped his gaze over the musketeers in search of his friend's face.

Treville's mouth pinched into a tight line. "No. Hugo and Benett returned to the garrison to report the ambush. A ransom note was delivered while we were getting a troop ready to ride out. It only said some musketeers were captured, not how many. We assumed it was the three of you."

"No," Athos repeated gravely. "In fact, I can't recall seeing him at the end of the skirmish. I'd assumed he'd escaped with the others."

Porthos's heart dropped into the bottom of his stomach. Aramis wasn't here. And there were only a few number of things that could keep him away, none of them good.

"We have ta go back." Porthos pushed past everyone and strode toward the archway, only to pull up short when he realized he'd been knocked out for the journey here and didn't know which way to go.

"This way," Athos said, moving around him and taking up the lead.

Porthos gave a clipped nod and followed. He heard Treville give out orders to the others to finish up here and then the captain was coming with them.

"No one saw if he was wounded?" Treville asked as they walked.

"No," Athos replied. "The fight was chaotic and we were outnumbered."

"I'm not passing judgement."

Maybe not, but Porthos couldn't help but berate himself for not seeing where his brother had gotten to. If he'd been badly wounded and left there this whole time, or worse…no, Porthos refused to even entertain the idea that Aramis wasn't alive. The man did not survive Savoy to fall here on a stupid mission like this.

The scene of the ambush came into view, a handful of bodies left to lie in the sun on the edge of the woods. Porthos scanned them, not finding the one he was looking for, until…

Porthos surged forward as he spotted Aramis lying near some shrubbery, an arm up over his face. He didn't see any blood on the ground, but Aramis's position sent him into a panic and he dropped down heavily beside him, reaching out to move his arm and get a look at his face, pleading for him to not be dead.

Aramis moaned and Porthos felt a wave of relief, but it was quickly tempered by the sight before him. Aramis's face was scrunched up in pain and his pallor white. Porthos's stomach dropped out from under him at the realization of what was happening.

Athos hovered behind him. "Is he wounded?"

Porthos gave himself a sharp shake and surveyed Aramis again, but the only sign of injury was a welt on the right side of his forehead. The skin wasn't broken, but Porthos recognized these symptoms.

"Doesn't look like it," he whispered. "Other than that bruise."

Aramis's eyes cracked open to slits and squinted up at him. "P'thos?"

He quickly plastered on an encouraging smile. "Yeah, right here."

"You were gone. You were all gone."

Porthos reeled back at the implication and he took in the scene in a new light. Aramis had been left behind. Somehow he'd been left behind, alone…

"Not by choice," Athos interjected at a normal volume that had Aramis flinching. "Our captors didn't give us much say in the matter."

Porthos reached out and rubbed his thumb into Aramis's temple. "We came back for you as soon as the captain rescued us," he assured softly.

Aramis moaned. "Knew something…happened. You wouldn't…" He whimpered and pressed his face into the grass.

Treville crouched down next to them, expression grim. "If we try to get him back to Paris, it will be excruciating," he said in an equally low voice.

Porthos nodded. "I'll stay here wit' him. If you can leave us some supplies, I'll do what I can."

"You know what's wrong with him?" Athos asked, finally taking a cue from them and speaking in a softer tone.

Porthos looked up at him. "Remember when I said Aramis's head sometimes pains him? This is that."

Treville stood. "I'll send some men to look for herbs, though who knows if there's any nearby."

"No need," Athos said and drew out a pouch from the inside of his coat. "I have feverfew, willow bark, and ginger."

Porthos furrowed his brow. "Where'd you get that?"

"It's the supply Aramis gave me for my own…troubles. I just never stopped carrying it."

Porthos's face cracked into a grin. "I'm sure he'd say God bless you."

The man in question let out a low keen.

"I'll get the supplies," Treville said softly and left.

Porthos shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over Aramis's head to shield him from the light.

Athos went off into the trees and came back a few minutes later with some wood for making a fire and Aramis's horse, of all things. Porthos caught his attention silently and gestured for him to tether the animal a fair distance away. Athos set the wood down without a sound and led the horse to some bushes. Then he pulled the saddlebags off and carried them back to a spot halfway between there and Aramis to start a campfire, using Aramis's water skin and a tin cup from his bag to begin heating some water and steeping the herbs.

Treville and some men returned a short time after with Porthos's and Athos's steeds, which they left next to Aramis's, unloading the saddlebags and bringing them to Athos without exchanging any words. Then Treville waved at his men to remove the bodies. Once that was done, the captain nodded to Athos and Porthos and departed.

Porthos watched Athos go through the supplies, carefully setting out items they might need as time went on. When the tea was ready, Porthos set his coat aside and gently lifted Aramis into his arms. Aramis moaned at the change in elevation and light. Porthos cradled him in one arm and covered his eyes with his other hand.

"Athos made your tea," he whispered as softly as possible. "It'll help."

Athos placed the rim of the cup to Aramis's lips and tipped it slowly. Aramis's throat bobbed as he swallowed.

"Wait," Porthos murmured after two sips.

Athos stilled.

When the tea stayed down, Porthos nodded for him to continue. They had to do it bit by bit, but eventually Aramis had drunk half the cup, which would hopefully be enough to help. Porthos shifted to lay him back down but Athos put a hand on his arm to stall him.

Porthos waited without question as he got up to retrieve a bedroll and came back to lay it out. Then Porthos eased Aramis onto it and covered his head with the jacket again, careful to arrange the folds so he could still breathe.

Athos cocked his head at Porthos, and they both stood and moved back toward the campfire. Even so, Athos kept his voice low.

"I didn't realize the condition could get this severe."

Porthos just nodded grimly. "Aramis told me once it feels like someone settin' off a fuse of gunpowder inside his skull. Over and over again."

Athos's jaw visibly tightened. "How long?"

"When it's this bad, at least a day. Sometimes more than one."

"Is there nothing more we can do?"

Porthos swallowed around a spiky lump in his throat. "No. All we and him can do is wait it out."

Athos looked as displeased by that as Porthos was, but there really was nothing they could do. Not even the physicians back in Paris had been able to cure these attacks when they happened. The best they could hope for was to reduce the things that made it worse, like light and sound.

Porthos walked back over and sat down next to his friend, reaching under the jacket to knead small circles into Aramis's scalp. Sometimes it helped; sometimes it didn't. At the very least, Aramis knew he was there and wasn't leaving.

o.0.o

Athos sat by the campfire and watched Aramis shudder and moan on the ground and imagined this was what it must have been like for him and Porthos to watch Athos purge the alcohol from his body. No wonder Aramis had said Porthos had experience with it.

But Athos was familiar with the misery the drink could inflict, and this looked far worse.

A few hours later he made more tea and coaxed Aramis into drinking it. But the man had barely gotten three swallows down before he threw it back up. Porthos tilted him toward the bushes and held him up as he retched, choked cries tearing from his throat between heaves. When it was over, Porthos carefully shifted him back into his arms, cradling him like a child and holding Aramis's head as the sick man pressed it into Porthos's shirt.

The sun was below the treetops now but the light still seemed to bother Aramis immensely. As it got darker, Porthos angled himself so he was shielding Aramis from the light of the campfire. Athos tried the tea again a short while later and this time Aramis kept it down. Porthos's jacket remained pooled on the ground, so Athos grabbed a saddle blanket and draped it over his broad shoulders. Porthos gave a subtle nod of thanks.

A little past midnight, Aramis's body finally seemed to give out from the strain and he went boneless in Porthos's arms. The large man let out a soft sigh that sounded like relief. But instead of laying Aramis down on the bedroll, he continued to just hold him, chin resting on the top of Aramis's hair and gaze staring out into the night.

Athos thought about suggesting they split the remainder of the watch but decided against it. Porthos wasn't going to let go of Aramis, and so Athos would see to watching over them both.

When dawn seeped across the sky, Athos had been staring at his friends—yes, _friends_ —so long that he almost missed Aramis's eyes cracking open. He quietly crept forward, which alerted Porthos, who looked down.

"Hey," he whispered.

Aramis continued to blink very slowly, and while there was a crease of pain in his brow, it wasn't as pronounced as yesterday.

"Better?" Porthos asked softly.

Aramis closed his eyes, then opened them again and gave the barest perceptible nod.

Porthos smiled in return. "Athos will make you some more of that special tea and then you can sleep for a few more hours before we head home, yeah?"

Aramis gave a slow blink again, which Athos took to mean confirmation. He rose and went to the simmering campfire to heat some water and steep more of the herbs. And while he may not have had much use for them himself recently, he resolved to keep a fresh stock on his person always. Because that had been a harrowing night.

But they'd made it through to morning.


	9. Epilogue

Aramis sat on the edge of his bed, bowed forward with his head in his hands. It had been two days since the ambush and his episode, and he was still weak, only able to eat small amounts at a time as nausea still lingered. For all the progress he'd made since Savoy, he had been reduced to nothing again in one fell sweep.

He thought he'd finally recovered, finally overcome both the physical and mental strain Savoy had inflicted on him. He'd hit the mark every time in target practice; he'd kept up with Athos in a duel.

He'd found brotherhood again.

But it was all ephemeral, fleeting.

He didn't think he could continue to be a musketeer. His susceptibility to these attacks could debilitate him out of the blue in the middle of a mission, as had just happened. He hadn't been able to help Porthos and Athos when they'd been captured. At the very least, he was useless; at the worst, he was a liability. And there was no room for a crippled soldier in a regiment.

Aramis crooked his fingers in his hair and squeezed his eyes shut. But the Musketeers were all he had and the thought of losing that was as painful as the loss he suffered in Savoy. He had no idea where he would go—he had nowhere to go.

A knock sounded at the door a moment before it opened, and Aramis looked up as Athos entered, having elected to just announce himself rather than wait for permission. He bore a plate of bread and fruit.

He and Porthos had been so attentive since that day on the road, and Aramis has appreciated it, mostly. But he also knew he didn't deserve it. He remembered what he'd said to Athos after Porthos had been injured in that Huguenot church, how musketeers had to depend on each other, and his heart clenched as the truth was cast back upon him—his brothers could not depend on him to watch their backs.

Athos set the plate on the table and turned to study him for a long moment when Aramis gave no acknowledgement. "Is your head paining you again?" he asked quietly. "I can get some willow bark."

"No," Aramis said, dropping his arms and lifting his head. "I have just been thinking."

"Then I'm surprised your head doesn't hurt from the effort."

Aramis didn't have the heart to respond to the playful jab and lowered his gaze to the floor.

Athos was silent for a moment. "Aramis."

"I think I must leave the Musketeers," he confessed.

"Why?"

Aramis gritted his teeth and looked up again. "Do you really have to ask? It's obvious."

"Not to me," Athos replied, a thread of incredulity seeping into his tone.

Aramis clenched his fists. "I failed on that mission."

"You fought well."

"Don't patronize me," he snapped. "I was rendered useless, unable to come to your defense or rescue, or at the very least stay with our charge. I am not fit to wear the musketeer uniform," he said bitterly.

Athos merely regarded him with almost cool detachment. "I didn't see you when I was captured. Where were you?"

Aramis looked away. "I was fighting one of the bandits and we both fell down a small knoll. I struck my head at the bottom and was dazed for a bit. I almost didn't recover in time to avoid my opponent finishing me off."

"But you did."

"Yes. I killed him instead. When I made it back up the incline, everyone was gone."

"So, wounded and dazed, you still managed to best your attacker. And the circumstances of the terrain prevented anyone from noticing your position. That hardly reflects poorly on you."

Aramis surged to his feet. "I couldn't come after you! I knew…I knew something had to have happened, that you wouldn't…" He swayed on his feet and plopped back onto the mattress, silently cursing his frailty. "I wasn't able to come to your aid. All I could do was lie in those woods, helpless… I- I can't be a musketeer with such weakness."

Athos grabbed the room's single chair and dragged it over, taking a seat directly in front of him and leaning forward earnestly. "If I can be a musketeer despite my weaknesses, then so can you."

Aramis shook his head. "You chose to exert control over your addiction. You're not ruled by it anymore. I can't control when these headaches strike."

"How is that different than getting shot or stabbed?" Athos countered. "Those can happen anytime too."

"It is different."

Athos huffed. "From what I understand, the headaches have gotten less frequent. Perhaps as more time passes, they will fade completely."

"That's not good enough!" Aramis hissed. "It will only take one time for me to fail again, for you or Porthos to be hurt or killed because of it."

Athos shot him a sardonic look. "Despite your acclaimed skill, you are not a one-man army. We watch each other's backs and make up for where one is lacking." He leaned forward again, expression softening. "Besides, Porthos needs you."

"Porthos has you," Aramis mumbled. His departure would be a blow to their friend, but Athos would see him through it. And the other musketeers were slowly warming to him; Porthos would be all right.

"Porthos needs us both," Athos replied. He sighed. "I need you both."

Aramis's heart gave a pang at the words, because he needed them too. "Treville cannot justify keeping me around."

"Treville knows not to let good things go."

Aramis chuffed at the semblance of his own words being thrown back at him.

Athos suddenly reached out and clasped the back of his neck, capturing his gaze. "Do not give in, Aramis," he beseeched. "You have survived too much to let this defeat you now. Trust me and Porthos to help when you need it, just as we trust you to care for us when we do."

Aramis's throat constricted at the rare openness in Athos's eyes. He wanted to resist, but the truth was it would hurt more to leave than to stay. This was his home, and these were his brothers.

He ducked his gaze and nodded.

Athos squeezed his nape and then released him, leaning back in his seat.

The door creaked open and Porthos entered, freezing as he took in the somber air. "Everythin' all right?" he asked warily.

"Yes," Aramis answered, his voice cracking slightly. "I thought I might take my meal in the yard today."

Porthos continued to glance between him and Athos. "Yeah?"

Aramis smiled. "Yes."

Athos stood and returned the chair to the table, then picked up the plate he'd brought and gestured for them to go ahead.

Aramis took a breath as he rose to his feet, cautious of the persistent tremor in his limbs. But he made it to the door and stepped outside, pausing to breathe deeply again of fresh air. Then with Porthos and Athos by his side, he took his first steady steps into the sun.


End file.
